The Journey Trevor Hoyle

The road had a reputation as an accident black spot; maybe more accurate to call it a deadly rash than a single spot, given the multiple mortalities and injuries The Journey

A Short Story by Trevor Hoyle

It was that last stretch of the A38 – from Buckfastleigh to Plymouth – that Don Weaver dreaded most. Even though he’d driven the route so many times he’d lost count, he always felt apprehensive and a bit queasy. The road had a reputation as an accident black spot; maybe more accurate to call it a deadly rash than a single spot, given the multiple mortalities and injuries. Switching from fast dual carriageway to constipated twolane traffic and back again every few miles was a temptation too great to resist for overtaking drivers who met their fate head on. Compounding the risk were slow lumbering farm vehicles, and this was a bad time of year for them.

At the moment the traffic was light, the weather fine and clear. Don had left Bristol a few minutes after one o’clock. His appointment with the manager of Stubley Manor, Ian Pocklington, was at three, which was cutting it fine. Over the phone Ian had come across as a laid-back, agreeable sort of bloke, so maybe it wasn’t worth breaking his neck to be punctually on the dot. Ian had even suggested an overnight stay with dinner, gratis, if Don could spare the time.

Unbidden and unwelcome, Janet’s voice wormed its way into his head. “Why do you leave everything to the last minute, Donald? Working in the travel in

Art: David Anderson / www.dandersonillustration.com

He rummaged in the bag for his favourite liquorice allsort, the round one with speckles. Periods like this made you pause and reflect …

dustry you’d imagine schedules and timetables were important. With you they don’t seem to matter . . . or you’re just plain lazy. I don’t know which.”

You don’t know anything, Don answered her in his mind. I do plan ahead. My life is one long tedious plan.

“That Audi Quattro’s clapped out for a start,” she went on, undeterred. “The battery’s dodgy and there’s bald patches on both front tyres. I noticed them weeks ago.”

Good for you, Stirling Bleedin’ Moss. His hands tightened on the wheel. Let it go, he thought. If you don’t respond she’ll disappear down the dark tunnel to blessed oblivion …

In an effort to distract himself (and cease fretting about the road ahead), Don had the radio on. He’d already tried Classic FM, until it started lulling him to sleep, and jabbed buttons, seeking something less soporific. On Radio 4 he came across a talk or discussion; it might have been a science documentary, he wasn’t sure.

… deaths in hospitals, care homes, private homes and hospices show that 6035 people died as a result of suspected or confirmed infection in England and Wales in the week ending 1st May, a decline of 2202 from the previous week. Although the number of deaths has fallen for the second week in a row …

Before the offer of a freebie, Don had been seriously pissed off at having to drive all the way down to Plymouth. He could have checked out Stubley Manor as a wedding venue just as effectively by video, as he patiently explained to the snotty know-it-all son and heir of the agency’s owner. Who wasn’t the patient type as it turned out. Words were exchanged – or would have been if Don hadn’t held his tongue. He’d had to do a lot of that recently, now that the old man was taking a back seat. The personal visit was to display some enthusiasm, he was lectured at, as if he was a damn rookie; to make an impression and drive home how keen they were to secure the business.

Don got the message. Yes sir, no sir, three farts in the wind, sir.

It was true that 2019 had been a leanish year, due mainly to the uncertainty over Brexit. But things were looking up, now the second referendum had settled it once and for all and they were staying in the EU. Bookings were buoyant once again. Spain and Portugal looked set to break records, and they weren’t even halfway through the year. And the Olympic Games in Shanghai in July and August would be the fat, juicy Maraschino cherry on top of the cake. There was really nothing to worry about, Don kept telling himself. Except he couldn’t shake off the nagging fear that thanks to Snotty Sonny Boy’s interference the agency might decide to throw the old-timers under a bus in favour of fresh blood and new ideas.

A low point had been reached when during quiet periods in the afternoon he started surreptitiously scanning job vacancies on the travel websites – and got caught at it. He might have known it would be Steph, Pete Shaw’s secretary, the one who glided around the office like a slinky cat. She made him jump out of his skin when a husky murmur close to his ear inquired petulantly: “Not leaving without saying byebyes, are we, Mr Weaver? What about that weekend in Brighton you promised me?”

Don sat bolt upright and slammed the laptop shut in such a funk of guilt it made Steph muffle her snort of laughter with both hands.

Not that he wanted to quit his job or indeed leave the area. While Bristol wasn’t his native city, ten years was a long time; he was settled and established, as happy here – or as miserable – as he was likely to be anywhere else. (Along with his son Eliot he’d even become a season ticket holder at Bristol Rovers, down there in lowly League 1. His son was actually a Man United fan, and El and his mates at school were over the moon at having won the Premiership title with eleven clear points above Liverpool!)

He rummaged in the bag for his favourite liquorice allsort, the round one with speckles. Periods like this made you pause and reflect, halt in mid-stride as it were, and look at yourself, so to speak, in your mental mirror. Being brutally honest, Don supposed he led rather a boring and uneventful life, though tonight

“What was it, a pole dance type show? Were they totally nude, the women, or partially clothed? I suppose you felt chuffed at being ‘one of the boys’”

might be the exception that proved the rule.

… the government is looking to enforce a 14-day quarantine period on those entering the UK. “I’m really sorry for that, and we do understand the sacrifices everyone’s having to make,” the foreign secretary said. Dominic Raab also confirmed the government is aiming to get primary school children back into school within a month of the end of the summer term. However, he emphasised this would not begin until the 1st of June at the earliest …

Literally out of the blue several huge plops smacked the windscreen with flat, loud retorts, bringing a shake of the head and an inward groan. No, it wasn’t fair, not today, a rainstorm sweeping down over the bleak wastes of Dartmoor. The weather this year had been exceptionally fine and dry: no April showers to speak of, and hardly a drop of real rain in the past fortnight.

“What did I say? What did I tell you?” Janet was back from oblivion. “You never make allowances for the unexpected. Always pushing your luck, forever on the last minute. You’ll be late for your own funeral!”

I won’t be late for yours, Don retorted, helping himself to another allsort. What had happened to the pair of them? Where had this rancour come from and what was its cause? What had turned his wife into such a bitter and mean-mouthed tormentor? It was as if her mission in life was to mock him and find fault – any excuse to twist the knife with a kind of malicious, sadistic glee.

Like the time she’d been rooting through his pockets and pounced on a book of matches emblazoned with “Platinum Gold Gentlemen’s Club” in silver lettering and the silhouette of a naked woman.

“Going to pretend these aren’t yours?” Janet threw the matches onto the table with a contemptuous gesture. “Invent a story that you ‘found them’ in a pub somewhere?” she added sarcastically.

Don knew he was trapped. “They’re from Pete Shaw’s birthday bash last month. He reserved a table for eight of us – ”

“And you didn’t get in till well gone half-past two as I recall.” Her tone was acid. “What was it, a pole dance type show? Were they totally nude, the women, or partially clothed?”

Don shrugged wearily. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose you felt chuffed at being ‘one of the boys’, sitting back glugging whisky, telling dirty jokes.” Janet’s voice was scathing. Her face went stiff. “And what’s with matches anyway? You weren’t smoking, I hope … with your chest.”

“I haven’t smoked in years. You know that.” He’d smoked two cigars, but reluctantly, without pleasure. It was Pete Shaw’s fault. “So what’s it matter if you do go home smelling of smoke? You wear the trousers in your house, don’cha Donny boy? Or does the wife make you wear a pinny?”

Everybody had laughed, including Don. So then he had no choice but to accept a cigar and puff away as if he enjoyed it. After the first he couldn’t refuse a second, which with the beer, wine and whisky made him turn green and dash to the toilet. The laughter round the table was hysterical. That was the night, Don remembered, he had met slinky Steph in the midnight taxi queue. She had been distressed over the state of him, and seemed genuinely concerned for his welfare; it was her idea to share a cab. On the way Steph had been most sympathetic, and Don’s gratitude humble and heart-felt. So much so that they’d gone back to her flat for another helping of heart-felt gratitude and concerned sympathy.

… up to 30% of patients who are seriously ill with coronavirus are developing dangerous blood clots, according to medical experts. Severe inflammation in the lungs – a natural response of the body to the virus – is behind their formation. Patients affected worldwide by the pandemic are prone to many medical complications, some of which can be fatal …

The sign for Buckfastleigh flashed by, which to Don might have read DANGER ZONE AHEAD in glowing red neon. Automatically he checked the time: 2.10pm. No chance he was going to make the appointment with Ian Pocklington, not unless he really put his foot

He could also see a tractor chugging rings of blue smoke into the rainswept air while hauling a lop-sided silage tank spattered with pig manure

down. More heavy spots smeared themselves on the windscreen. The rain resembled teeming pencil rods, slanting right to left across the dual carriageway. He tried to recall how much further the dual carriageway extended before it narrowed to the two-lane black spot. Otherwise known as the Suicidal Death-trap.

Did other people have those same thoughts? Surely they must do – tempted by a quick and easy and permanent exit. Just pull out blindly from behind the vehicle blocking your way and overtake without bothering to look ahead. Within seconds it would all be over. Peace at last.

It jogged his mind back to the news flash only this morning, while shaving in the bathroom, which reported that the prime minister had been admitted to hospital after suffering a minor stroke. Although Don hadn’t voted for the man, he hoped the PM would recover and regain his health. There was an interview a bit later on TV in which Mrs Corbyn had thanked the many well-wishers praying for her husband’s recovery. Having just visited him in hospital, she reported that Jeremy was “on the mend” and “in good spirits”.

However, this raised the possibility that the prime minister might have to cancel his trip to America to meet President Clinton, who was gearing up already to run for her second term of office in November.

The daft sci-fi fantasy he’d been half-listening to about viruses, blood clots, global pandemics and other far-fetched nonsense finally came to an end, thank god. Some writers had really warped imaginations. He switched the radio off, letting his thoughts dwell on the evening ahead: the intimate candle-lit dinner at Stubley Manor with slinky Steph, and then spending the night together in a king-size bed. She was taking the train down after work and Don had arranged to pick her up at the station.

Coming up fast, less than a quarter of a mile away, he could see the end of the dual carriageway. He could also see a tractor chugging rings of blue smoke into the rainswept air while hauling a lop-sided silage tank spattered with pig manure. Don calculated there was a slim to even chance of overtaking the tractor before the road narrowed. Too risky or should he take a gamble? It required an instant decision. Firmly and deliberately, Don pressed down on the accelerator. What the hell, he thought, twisting the wheel. For once in a lifetime, take a risk and gamble. CT

Trevor Hoyle is a writer and novelist based in Lancashire, England. His most recent novel is the environmental thriller The Last Gasp, published by Jo Fletcher Books (Quercus). His website is www.trevorhoyle.com

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